I Used to be Funny...

One day I will write a book entitled,I Used to be Funny. I was, ya know. At least I thought I was and my friends thought I was and even my parents thought I was. So it must have been true...OK...wait, I guess I should change that title to I Thought I Was Funny...or I Was Funny, Wasn't I?

I don't feel funny now. Everyone thinks my brother is hilarious. He is sometimes. But, occasionally, as he is stealthily roping in his unwitting audience to "set'em up and knock'em down," I notice him slide his eyes toward me as he silently documents his source. He's using my stuff. That's OK. I'm not using it.

But to be honest, people tell me that I actually AM funny now. Well, not ME, but the family dynamic of 9 people under one roof just lends itself to humour sometimes. What's not to laugh about? Large families aren't really like the ones we see in the movies. There are no whistle calls like the Von Trapps had (although I love that idea), or impromptu let's-order-9,000 pizzas-because-our-parents-aren't-here parties like in the modern version of His, Hers and Ours, but you'll find our address in that valley between organization and chaos, turning left at "Holy Cow, I Can't Believe You Said That!"

We follow the rule of two for the most part in our family. We take two cars most places, allow two items from the dollar menu, two cookies in your lunch and we bought two washing machines to help keep pace with the dirty clothes pile. We dine together at two tables and a team of two unloads and loads the dish washer.

If you go anywhere, especially in an airport, you take a buddy along with a radio--not so much for safety, but for those who are directionally challenged. I'm sure you can identify with the feeling of your international flight boarding and suddenly realizing that you've only counted five of seven children. You know that mango-sized ball of fear in the pit of your stomach when you don't know if your sons are on the up-escalator to the $7 airport hot dogs or still in the Hong Kong terminal? I (being the over-protective, ridiculously doting mother) take comfort in the deedle-dee Motorola beeping of the radio signaling that my child (using his best drive-through voice)is on the other end, "Is...OK..sev..lar..hot..?"

"SEVEN DOLLARS?!"

My husband would prefer the uncertainty of swirling radio static.

"Maybe the kids are in Singapore. We'll meet up at baggage claim."

Admit it; that's funny.

I think humour is a commodity more valuable than gold. I'm not kidding.